Nova Castria is in full flow; the bars are starting to fill with packs of women, hair solid with spray and faces solid with make-up, skin tanned from a bottle and on display; the male of the species, also hunting in packs, has a premature beer-belly, cropped hair, chimp-hanging arms and clouds of aftershave swirling in the cigarette smoke.
Last night's phlegm is still patch worked on the Tarmac; the streets fill with shouts and barked expletives. In the windows of the bars, cocktails are sucked through perfectly lipsticked mouths, the eyes above them darting to left and right, searching for romance.
The Indian restaurateurs wait patiently for the onslaught.
In Greggs, a chap who is already drunk orders a shaushashe roll.